Martin Webster fingers the cadet badge he was so proud to wear as a youth. His life has been one of hard work and service for others. Now, in his retirement years, he should be enjoying the rewards he deserves. But the fat cats have conned him out of his nest egg. The Daily World asks…

'I've photocopied all the documents for you,' says Martin. 'All the paperwork. I don't know if it'll be any use…

'Oh, thanks,' I say, taking the pile of pages from him. 'I'll have a good read through these.'

When honest Martin Webster received a letter from Flagstaff Life, inviting him to switch investment funds, he trusted the money men to know what was best for him.

Two weeks later he discovered they had tricked him out of a ?20,000 windfall.

"My wife is ill as a result of all this," he said. 'I'm so worried.'

Hmmm.

'Janice?' I say, looking up casually. 'Do you feel all right? Not… unwell, or anything?'

'A bit nervous, to be honest, dear,' she says, looking round from the mirror. 'I'm never very good at having my picture taken.'

"My nerves are shot to pieces,' said Mrs Webster in a ragged voice. I’ve never felt so betrayed in all my life.'

'Well, I think I've got enough now,' I say, getting up and switching off my Dictaphone. 'I might have to slightly digress from what's on the tape – just to make the story work. You don't mind, do you?'

'Of course not!' says Janice. 'You write what you like, Becky! We trust you.'

'So what happens now?' says Martin.

'I'll have to go and talk to Flagstaff Life,' I say. 'Get them to give their defence.'

'What defence?' says Martin. 'There is no defence for what they did to us!'

'I know,' I say and grin at him. 'Exactly.'

As I go back home and up to my bedroom, I'm full of happy adrenalin. All I need to do is get a quote from Flagstaff Life, and I can start writing the piece. I haven't got long: it needs to be finished by two o'clock if it's going to make tomorrow's edition. God, this is exciting. Why has work never seemed so exciting before?

Briskly I reach for the phone and dial Flagstaff's number – only to be told by the switchboard operator that all press enquiries are dealt with out-of-house. She gives me a number, which seems rather familiar, and I frown at it for a moment, then punch it in.

'Hello,' says a smooth voice. 'Brandon Communications.'

Oh God, of course. Suddenly I feel a bit shaky. The word 'Brandon' has hit me right in the stomach like a punch. I'd forgotten all about Luke Brandon. To be honest, I'd forgotten all about the rest of my life. And frankly, I don't want to be reminded of it.

But it's OK – I don't have to speak to him personally, do I?

'Hi!' I say. 'It's Rebecca Bloomwood here. Ermm… I just wanted to talk to somebody about Flagstaff Life.'

'Let me check…' says the voice. 'Yes, that's Luke Brandon's client. I'll just put you through to his assistant…' And the voice disappears before I can say anything.

Oh God.

Oh God, I can't do this. I can't speak to Luke Brandon. My questions are jotted down on a piece of paper in front of me, but as I stare at them I'm not reading them. I'm remembering the humiliation I felt that day in Harrods. That horrible plunge in my stomach when I heard the patronizing note in his voice and suddenly realized what he thought of me. A joke. A nothing,

OK, I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I can do it. I'll just be very stern and businesslike and ask my questions, and-

'Rebecca!' comes a voice in my ear. 'How are you! It's Alicia here.'

'Oh,' I say in surprise. 'I thought I was going to speak to Luke. It's about Flagstaff Life.'

'Yes, well,' says Alicia. 'Luke Brandon is a very busy man. I'm sure I can answer any questions you have.'

'Oh, right,' I say, and pause. 'But they're not your client, are they?'

'I'm sure that won't matter in this case,' she says, and gives a little laugh. 'What did you want to know?'

'Right' I say, and look at my list. 'Was it a deliberate policy for Flagstaff Life to invite their investors to move out of with-profits just before they announced windfalls? Some people lost out a lot, you know.'

'Right…' she says. 'Thanks, Camilla, I'll have smoked salmon and lettuce.'

'What?' I say.

'Sorry, yes, I am with you,' she says. 'Just jotting it down… I'll have to get back to you on that, I'm afraid.'

'Well, I need a response soon!' I say. 'My deadline's in a few hours.'

'Got that,' says Alicia. Suddenly her voice goes muffled. 'No, smoked salmon. OK then, Chinese chicken. Yes.' The muffle disappears. 'So, Rebecca, any other questions? Tell you what, shall I send you our latest press pack? That's bound to answer any other queries. Or you could fax in your questions.'

'Fine,' I say curtly. 'Fine, I'll do that.' And I put the phone down.

For a while I stare straight ahead in brooding silence. Stupid patronizing cow. Can't even be bothered to take my questions seriously.

Then gradually it comes to me that this is the way I always get treated when I ring up press offices. No one's ever in any hurry to answer my questions, are they? People are always putting me on hold, saying they'll ring me back and not bothering. I've never minded before – I've rather enjoyed hanging on to a phone, listening to 'Greensleeves' (at least it beats working). I've never cared before whether people took me seriously or not.

But today, I do care. Today what I'm doing does seem important, and I do want to be taken seriously.

Well, I'll show her, I think fiercely. I'll show them all, Luke Brandon included. Show them that I, Rebecca Bloomwood, am not a joke.

With a sudden determination I reach for my dad's typewriter. I feed in some paper, switch on my Dictaphone, take a deep breath and begin to type.


REBECCA BLOOMWOOD


THE PINES

43 ELTON ROAD

OXSHOTT

SURREY


FAX MESSAGE FOR

ERIC FOREMAN

DAILY WORLD


FROM

REBECCA BLOOMWOOD


28 March 2000


Dear Eric

I enclose my 950-word article on Flagstaff Life and the lost windfalls. I do hope you like it.


With best wishes

Rebecca Bloomwood

Financial Journalist

Eighteen

The next morning, I wake at six in the morning. It's pathetic, I know, but I'm as excited as a little kid on Christmas Day (or as me on Christmas Day, to be perfectly honest).

I lie in bed, telling myself to be grown-up and laid back and not think about it – but I just can't resist it. My mind is swimming with images of all the piles of newspapers in all the newsagents, all over the country. Of all the copies of the Daily World being dropped on people's doormats this morning; all the people who are going to be opening their papers, yawning, wondering what's in the news.

And what are they going to see?

They're going to see my name! Rebecca Bloomwood in print in the Daily World! My first national by-line. 'By Rebecca Bloomwood.' Doesn't that sound cool? 'By Rebecca Bloomood.'

I know the piece has gone in, because Eric Foreman phoned me up yesterday afternoon and told me the editor was really pleased with it. And they've got it on a colour page – so the picture of Janice and Martin will be in full colour. Really high profile. I can't quite believe it. The Daily World!

Even as I'm lying here, it occurs to me, there's already a whole pile of Daily Worlds at the newsagent in the parade of shops round the corner. A whole pile of pristine, unopened copies. And the newsagent opens at… what time? Six, I seem to remember. And now it's five past six. So in theory, I could go and buy one right now if I wanted to. I could just get up, slip on some clothes, go down to the newsagent and buy one.

Not that I would, of course. I'm not quite so sad and desperate that I'm going to rush down as soon as the shop's opened, just to see my name. I mean, what do you take me for? No, what I'll do is just saunter down casually later on – perhaps at eleven or midday – pick up the paper and flip through it in mild interest and then saunter home again. I probably won't even bother to buy a copy. I mean – I've seen my name in print before, haven't I? It's hardly a big deal. No need to make a song and dance about it.

I'm going to turn over now and go back to sleep. I can't think why I'm awake so early. Must be the birds or something. Hmm… close my eyes, plump up my pillow, think about something else… I wonder what I'll have for breakfast when I get up?

But I've never seen my name in the Daily World, have I? says a little voice in my head. I've never seen it in a national newspaper.

Oh God, this is killing me. I can't wait any longer, I've got to see it.

Abruptly I get out of bed, throw on my clothes and tiptoe down the stairs. As I close the door, I feel just like the girl in that Beatles song about leaving home. Outside the air is flesh and crisp, and the road is completely quiet. Gosh, it's nice being up early. Why on earth don't I get up at six more often? I should do this every day. A power walk before breakfast, like people do in New York. Burn off loads of calories and then return home to an energizing breakfast of oats and freshly squeezed orange juice… Perfect. This will be my new regime.

But as I reach the little parade of shops, my heart begins to thump, and without quite meaning to, I slow my walk to a funereal pace. Now that I'm here, I'm starting to feel a bit nervous. I'm not actually sure I want to see my name in print at all. Maybe I'll just buy myself a Mars Bar and go home again. Or a Mint Aero, if they've got them.

Cautiously, I push at the door and wince at the 'ping!' as it opens. I really don't want to draw attention to myself this morning. What if the guy behind the counter has read my article and thinks it's rubbish? Oh God, this is nerve-racking. I should never have become a journalist. I should have become a beautician, like I always wanted to. Maybe it's not too late. I'll retrain, open my own boutique…

'Hello, Becky!'

I look up and feel my face jerk in surprise. Martin Webster's standing at the counter, holding a copy of the Daily World. 'I just happened to be awake,' he explains sheepishly. 'Thought I'd just come down, have a little look…'

'Oh,' I say. 'Erm… me too.' I give a nonchalant shrug. 'Since I was awake anyway…'

My eye falls on the newspaper and I feel my stomach flip over. Oh God. I'm going to expire with nerves.

Please, just kill me quickly.

'So – what… what's it like?' I say in a strangled voice.

'Well,' says Martin, gazing at the page as though perplexed. 'It's certainly big.' He turns the paper round to face me, and I nearly keel over. There, in full colour, is a picture of Martin and Janice staring miserably up at the camera, below the headline COUPLE CHEATED BY FAT CATS AT FLAGSTAFF LIFE.

Shaking slightly, I take the paper from Martin. My eye skips across the page to the first column of text… and there it is! 'By Rebecca Bloomwood.' That's my name! That's me!

There's a ping at the door of the shop, and we both look round. And there, to my utter astonishment, is Dad.

'Oh,' he says, and gives an embarrassed little cough. 'Your mother wanted me to buy a copy. And since I was awake anyway…'

'So was I,' says Martin quickly.

'Yes, so was I,' I say.

'Well,' says Dad. 'So – is it in?'

'Oh yes,' I say, 'it's in.' I turn the paper round so he can see it.

'Gosh,' he says. 'It's big, isn't it?'

'The photo's good, don't you think?' says Martin enthusiastically. 'Brings out the flowers in our curtains beautifully.'

'Yes, the photo's great,' I agree.

I'm not going to demean myself by asking what he thought of the article itself. If he wants to compliment my writing, he will. If he doesn't – then it really doesn't matter. The point is, I'm proud of it.

'And Janice looks very nice, I thought,' says Martin, still gazing at the photograph.

'Very nice,' agrees Dad. 'If a little mournful.'

'You see, these professionals, they know how to light a shot,' says Martin. 'The way the sunlight falls just here, on her-'

'What about my article?' I wail piteously. 'Did you like that?'

'Oh, it's very good!' says Martin. 'Sorry, Becky, I should have said I haven't read it all yet, but it seems to capture the situation exactly. Makes me out to be quite a hero!' He frowns. 'Although I never did fight in the Falklands, you know.'